


skeletons, smoke, and sin

by Puffers_McMuffers



Category: Swapfell - Fandom, Underfell - Fandom, Undertale (Video Game), underswap
Genre: Alternate Universe - Swapfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Alternate Universe - Underswap (Undertale), Angst, But im into it a little so whatever, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Ecto-Tongue (Undertale), Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fluff, Headcanon, Heavy Angst, I Blame Tumblr, I hate that ecto tongue is a tag, Interspecies Relationship(s), Kissing, Marking, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sans can't let himself be happy, Self-Hatred, Smoking, Swapfell Papyrus (Undertale), Swapfell Sans (Undertale), Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), Underswap Papyrus (Undertale), Underswap Sans (Undertale), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Sexual Tension, uh oh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2020-10-21 14:30:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20695100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Puffers_McMuffers/pseuds/Puffers_McMuffers
Summary: a collection of undertale, underfell, underswap, and swapfell drabbles and oneshots, in which you, an insufferable jackass and resident bad influence are inexplicably irresistible to literally every skelebabe there is.basically just a shitfest of horny angst and substance abuse and unhealthy relationships/coping mechanisms.read at your own discretion. this shit gets fucked up fast.





	1. kissing you

**Author's Note:**

> Uploading these by request! Seriously, hmu in the comments!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What are the skeleton's favorite places to kiss the Reader?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So far we have one (1) chapter and it's a doozy because everything i write is a doozy and im sorry in advance for the way things spiral from fluff to sin i dont have excuses

Undertale Sans

Kissing is hard for a person who doesn't have lips, so he doesn't initiate all that often- he's just teeth and it's always a little bit too hard, clumsy, and more like him headbutting you- but when he does it's sweet and affectionate and makes your insides feel all knotted and warm. Again, though, it doesn't happen often. It's easier for you to kiss his cheek then it is for him to smash his mouth against your face. But when you're alone and your thoughts are far away he'll pick you up and pull you into his lap and let things go from there. Kissing him isn't the same as kissing a person would be, but not in a necessarily bad way. With him it's more intimate because it _has _to be more intimate. It's- it's _nice._

Honestly, you taste so good _(salty sweet and warm and real)_ he can hardly keep his hands to himself. He's down to kiss you wherever you want him to, but he has a particular affinity for neck kisses. Don’t ask him why, because he’s not going to tell you.

* * *

Undertale Papyrus

The Great Papyrus may not have much practice in kissing, but he’s read his dating handbook so many times he’s pretty much a professional. What he lacks in experience he more then makes up for in enthusiasm.

He likes the display of affection. It's classic, _romantic, _and he's a traditional kind of guy. The only issue is that he's double your height and sometimes he's a little _too _eager and you end up mashing teeth together and getting a bloody nose. He just about has a heart attack when it happens (_the first time) _and apologizes for thirty consecutive minutes, shoving tissues at you until there's a small pile of kleenex boxes around you. 

His favorite place to kiss you would be your forehead, mostly because of his height and because it's far away from any delicate nose-bits that can start bleeding on him. It's easy and it makes you feel smaller then you are, sheltered by his lean, long body over you. It's sticky sweet, repulsively so, but you love it.

* * *

Underfell Sans

Where does Red like to kiss you? Literally anywhere and everywhere. 

He’s kissed pretty much every single inch of you (_and he really does mean every single inch, and you tell him that's a disgusting thing to say and he tells you that you'd never complained before)_, and there are some pretty good contenders. If he had to choose a place that's not, like, not completely explicit, it would probably be your collarbone or that little crook of your jaw.

There’s just something so vulnerable and intimate about you letting him nip his wickedly sharp teeth against your pulse- he can feel your fucking _heartbeat _race under his mouth, shit- that makes him go dizzy and causes and his grip on your hips to tighten so much you know you’ll have _(even more) _bruises later.

* * *

Underfell Papyrus

Firstly, Edge is a master when it comes to kisses, you should know. In fact, he was _known_ for his excellent kissing skills back in the underground! Yup, that was definitely a real thing that happened and he didn't just make up on the spot because he's embarrassed about his kissing viginity. 

Why are you looking at him like that? Shut up.

Yeah, you’re probably the first person he’s ever kissed, mostly because he scared any other candidates away. He lavishes you with rough, toe-curling kisses at every possible opportunity, although his personal favorite place to kiss you is on your shoulder when he's got his arms laced around you and you're all sleepy, giggling about a joke his brother had told you that he doesn't understand. You’re so warm and soft, and that's not something he's ever had before. It's different, really different, and Papyrus had never liked things that weren't like him but he thinks he can make an exception for you.

Not that he’ll ever admit it.

* * *

Underswap Sans

Blue like most things involving you, but kissing might just be his favorite. And that's saying something.

He’s an absolute kiss _fiend_ and will kiss you at any opportunity that presents himself. Or, more frequently, any opportunity he can arm wrestle into existence. Little kisses, cheek kisses, hard, surprisingly rough kisses- he's happy to be kissing you literally whenever. He's very physical about his affection, which is overwhelming both in public and in private but there are worse things to be, you think. 

His personal favorite place to kiss you is on your mouth. Chaste, nuzzling kisses are nice, but he likes to make you swoon. 

Except that once Stretch caught you two making out and now you can't talk to him without going red.

It's honestly a small price to pay.

* * *

Underswap Papyrus

Stretch likes affection in any form. He prefers being on the receiving end of such actions, normally, but it’s frankly pointless to try to keep himself from kissing you senseless when you’re around.

If you ask him where he likes to kiss you- and why the fuck would you ask that to somebody, anyways- he'll pretend to consider it. Say something real fucking weird, like _the inside of your elbow _or something similarly offputting just to throw you off. But he guesses he likes the normal kind of kisses, the type you see on screen in pg-13 movies. On the mouth, cheek, maybe neck if he's feeling it.

But he doesn't really like kissing that much, honestly. Or he doesn't like kissing _specifically. _He likes touching you in any capacity. Being close, tracing little stupid patterns into the skin of your back or on your arms or anywhere you let him. He's not picky.

* * *

Swapfell Sans

Blackberry demands kisses. And by _demands, _he really does order you to give him affection. And a lot of it, to the point where if you aren’t giving him every ounce of your attention he’ll just grab you by the collar and pull you into a rough, domineering kiss that knocks the breath straight out of your lungs and almost chips your teeth.

After all, you're _his _person and as such, if he wants kisses you better believe he's going to get them.

However, he’s still a sappy little skeleton under all that bravado, and his favorite place to kiss you would have to be your cheek. He likes to go up onto his tip toes and plant one there, chaste and sweet and leave you like that, red in the face.

* * *

Swapfell Pap

Where does Russ like to kiss you? Anywhere you want him too, kid. 

If he's being honest (which he rarely is), he doesn’t really understand why you’d want _him_\- a bleak, sloppy, asshole _skeleton, _of all people- to kiss you in the first place, especially when kissing isn't something that can be, by his very nature, easy for him, but hey. He isn’t going to stop if you aren’t complaining.

If you actually sum up the courage to ask him- and again, it's a weird thing to ask- he’ll lazily survey you with that stupid, half-grin of his as he takes an insufferably long drag of his cigarette.

_ “australian kisses.” _

You give him a blank look, and he puffs out a little ring of opaque smoke before casually replying.

_ “you know. like french kisses, but down under.” _

Your reaction is hilarious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> these are all from my old tumblr but im bored so if u have a request hmu in the comments 
> 
> Or check out my other underfell fic while ur waiting. Either way is a-ok to me.
> 
> Have a good night yall. Be safe and see u soon :)


	2. kisses, continued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where's the skeleton's favorite place to get kissed?
> 
> ;););)

Undertale Sans

Jeez, kid. He can't choose. Sans isn't a particularly picky person in the first place, and he'll often just sit back and take whatever you're willing to give him. He doesn't initiate kisses as much as you, though he'll always find excuses to touch you in other ways.

(An arm slung over your shoulder, a head on your lap, a hand creeping up your thigh under the dining table as his brother chatters away, oblivious to the smirking, heavy lidded skeleton doing awful things to you with his fingers… fuck)

He's got an affinity for kisses that land on his head, though. Few things are better than when you pepper little kisses all over his face- his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth- and then he gets to parade around the rest of the day with your lipstick all over his face and a shit eating, smug grin smacked across his face. 

* * *

Undertale Papyrus

To be honest, Papyrus kisses you far more than you kiss him, mostly because his height makes it a little difficult for you to get access to his face. But when he’s sitting down, well, you make up for lost time.

Together you two are a sappy, sickeningly sweet couple, and your kisses are similarly sugary. It's all giggles and small, affectionate kisses that aren't heated, exactly, but warm and filling.

His favorite kisses are eskimo kisses. He likes being able to press his forehead to yours and just _feel _you.

* * *

Underfell Sans

Red doesn't have the words to articulate just how much he _loves _kisses. Like, yeah, he obviously can't stop himself from kissing you, but he's never really had someone who actually _cares _about him the way you do. He's starved for affection and your willingness to give him yours is absolutely bone-melting. 

He kisses you more then you kiss him, but only because he literally kisses you all the fucking time. You never get the chance to initiate because he's already got his tongue down your throat, or at your neck, or at your inner thighs, or-

Well. It doesn't matter. You kiss him as much as you can. He's gonna take whatever you have, but his all-time favorite place for you to kiss is that little spot right below his jawline. It’s just the perfect mixture between sweet and sexy and really gets him going, if you catch his drift. Careful, though. Lavish it with a little tongue or kiss it just a little too rough and you'll be in for a _great time._

* * *

  


Underfell Papyrus

Kisses? Hah, the Great and Terrible Papyrus doesn’t need your affection. Or anyone' affections, for that matter. 

Edge is much more of a fighter than a lover, and therefore won’t ever admit he very much enjoys the sweet kisses you press against his jagged bones. He'll let you kiss him whenever, but he won't often reciprocate unless you two are alone or he's in a good mood.

He’ll pull you into rough, hard kisses occasionally, but he secretly prefers the sweeter, softer kisses that only ever occur in the hazy morning hours in bed. Of course, he’s actually just a Tsundere Marshmallow, and you pressing your soft lips against his cheekbones kind of sends him reeling.

* * *

Underswap Sans

Blueberry _lives _for kisses. He kisses you all the time, and it really is _all the time. _Like, you can't go an hour without him finding you and pulling you in for a good ol' smooch.

But like, he's so fucking cuddly you can't exactly keep your greedy hands off him, either. He's something you want to squeeze to death and protect and kiss kiss _kiss. _So you kiss him a lot. It's gross how sappy you've become around him. He likes all kisses- cheek kisses, forehead kisses, neck kisses- they’re all game for the little charmer. Smooches on his mouth, however, are his personal favorites. A good, romantic, proper kiss. Like the fairytales.

You’ll pull back to see stars in his eyes every time after you kiss him.

* * *

Underswap Papyrus

This lazy, apathetic bum is in some deep need of love. Not that he'll ever say anything about it. Yeah, he gets hugs from his brother, but now Blue's trying to be all grown up or whatever and doesn't like hugs like he used to, so your kisses, hugs, snuggles- they're sweeter then honey.

You kiss him more then he kisses you, although he shows his affection in other ways, like running a thumb over your shoulder every time you sit next to him or how his hip is always bumping into yours when you walk together. He's more for small things. 

He’s incredibly lanky even with his slouch, so it’s kind of hard for you to reach his face (though you certainly try). He likes it when you stand on your tiptoes and tug on his hoodie strings to pull him down into a kiss. Makes his stomach feel all fuzzy.

* * *

Swapfell Sans

Blackberry is a tiny tyrant, and therefore has no qualms with marching right up to you and demanding your kisses. He’s an attention whore, so don’t be surprised if you’re in the middle of talking to someone and he grabs your face to pull you down into a rough kiss just to show them who you belong to.

Secretly, he loves it when you kiss the top of his skull. It kind of plays to the soft, snuggly kitten curled up inside him under all that bravado. 

* * *

Swapfell Papyrus

Where does he liked to be kissed? He taps the ash off the tip of his cigarettes and proceeds to respond with an answer so nonchalantly _filthy _you choke on your own tongue.

If he's being honest, though, he likes being kissed on the nose bridge, or when you nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck. The thought that you'd like him so much you'd actually _want _to be close to him, not just for sex, but in such a chaste way makes him all warm and vaguely lightheaded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im serious y'all hmu if you got any requests for imagines or headcanonons or even a drabble im bored as fuck and horny for skeleton angst.
> 
> Anyways thanks for reading and don't be a necrophiliac irl please. 
> 
> Till then be safe and feel them good fall vibes. Ciao


	3. love is blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and so are you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Underfell brothers being soft for a blind reader who doesn't appreciate people being soft.

UF!Sans

Red doesn’t even realize you’re blind the first few times he meets you. You’re wearing sunglasses, but act so nonchalant and friendly no one really knows you aren’t really looking at them when they’re talking, just turning your head towards their voice. You're a little touchier than most people, he notices, but he's not complaining. Like, at all. He doesn't think much of it. You're perceptive, a little cynical, and seem to find his dickish-ness negiable, even  _ amusing. _ So maybe that's why he took so long to notice you were blind; he's head-over-heels,  _ blinded,  _ even, by his affection. 

But he's not totally stupid. After a week or two he starts to notice how you cling kind of closely when you walk with him, and the fact that you’re always wearing your glasses, even at work, and you don't react when he makes faces at things you say or when he rakes his eyes over you without the least bit of subtlety.

He asks you about it eventually and you finally confess that you’d lost your vision after an accident in your teens. You continue and admit that you hadn't told him because you'd been worried that he'd treat you differently. 

And your fears hadn't been entirely unfounded, it turns out. He  _ does  _ treat you different.

Not as a person. He still throws jabs at you and pokes fun at the stupid shit you do, but you notice he's been describing things a lot more.

Not in an intrusive way. Like, he'll lean over and whisper about the sweaty teen sitting at the opposite end of the room, trying to hit second base with his girlfriend, or the weird faces Papyrus makes when he's watching Mettaton on the TV. He'll tell you when the sky is blue or yellow or red or grey in detail that's surprisingly pleasant. Almost poetic.

It's easy to visualize what he's describing when he uses that voice of his, all low and rumbling and rough. He describes how you look like a few times, and it almost makes you cry, because the way he describes you is so soft and  _ reverent  _ you don't know how to respond.

And He’s always holding you in some way or another, whether it be by your hand or guiding you by the small of your back. 

He doesn’t think of you as a charity case or a burden, you can tell, 'cause he laughs- like,  _ really  _ laughs- at all your blind jokes, jokes that usually make people uncomfortable. He thinks you're a  _ fuckin' riot.  _ No, the only thing that’s really changed is his perception on how strong you are. He can’t stand the darkness, and you literally  _ live _ in it. So he does his best to light it up for you.

He never describes himself, though. 

You ask him to, but he just laughs it off. Evades the question, somehow, even when you bring it up again. 

He wants to paint a perfect world for you, after all, and- 

well, he doesn't really belong there, does he?

* * *

UF!Papyrus

Edge doesn’t seem to notice your sunglasses or your occasional late reactions for the first month you know him, aside from that one time he absently asked you to read him the paper he’d handed to you and you’d panicked. You figure he thinks humans are just weird like that, 'cause he doesn't exactly have much experience with people as fleshy and non-monster-y as you. 

But then it's snowing and a stray snowball comes hurtling into your face, and you don't even flinch until it makes contact with your nose and knocks your glasses off your face. Edge is just about to go beat the shit out of the kids who'd thrown the snow when you finally break down and tell him that you hadn't dodged because you were blind. 

You feel a cloth- his scarf, you think- against your face, wiping away the melting snow, as he lets out a huff.

“SO?”

Edge isn’t stupid. He’d known you were blind within minutes of first meeting you, but he just never thought it needed to be brought up. You don’t seem to view it as an impairment, so why should he? He treats you just as tough as he does everyone else. Maybe he's even tougher on you, because he knows you can handle it. You're the strongest person he knows, not being able to see and yet never letting it stop you. 

What bothers him, however, is when you tell him you hadn’t said anything because he was the first person in a long time to treat you like an actual human being and not a piece of glass. He hadn't stumbled around you, trying not to offend you or overcompensate by constantly steering you places or making a big show of being upset when there weren't braille signs in buildings. He just talked to you like people had before you'd gotten into the accident. You hadn’t wanted that to go away.

"...TRUST ME. I'M NOT GOING TO LET YOU GET AWAY WITH THINGS JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN'T SEE."

He scolds you for thinking he'd treat you any different just because you're blind, before, in a slightly softer voice, he asks you to take off your glasses. 

You don't like showing your eyes. They don't focus properly and you don't know for sure, 'cause you can't exactly check in the mirror, but you think they make you look freakish.

But he gets his way and he thinks he your eyes are  _ incredible. _

_ Beautiful,  _ he says, so gently you're caught off guard. He cups your cheeks and runs a thumb over the dark circles lining your lashes and you probably go beet red, but again, you wouldn't be able to tell.

For the most part, nothing in your relationship changes, although his touches have become a little more frequent. He likes keeping you close. He also starts reading to you every night before you go to bed, in a voice softer than most people believed could be uttered from the lanky skeleton’s teeth. 

He knows you can't see. Does he care much? No. You're still  _ you. _

Deep down, he doesn’t think you’re missing much. The world isn’t exactly a great place, and you deserve so much better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk why i wrote this. 
> 
> Anyways i love the underfell bros. Give me more prompts please because im not creative and i need attention.
> 
> Adios for now, partner.


	4. please don't take my sunshine away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> because some people just can't let themselves be happy

_You are my sunshine_

* * *

Sans had always wanted to see the sun.

He’d heard so much about it from the few old enough to remember the surface, heard reverent recollections of its warmth and light. He'd read about it, too, when he was young and did things like read and study and ask for stories about the surface. He used to daydream of a golden sunrise breaking through the cotton-candy clouds flying languidly through endless azure skies _(This was back when he still used words like 'azure' and 'cotton-candy' to describe things). _He'd feel the warmth of the sunlight spread through his cold, brittle bones, like stepping into a hot bath after a day working in the deep, slushy snow. 

It was always so dark in the Underground.

So fucking dark.

Which made sense, because as the name would suggest, the underground was _underground _and there usually wasn't a lot of light down in the middle of mountains. Sure, they had their candles and lightbulbs and whatever other artificial light the wildlife provided, but there were entire sections of the underground that were pitch-black 24-7. The darkness seeped in from the woods and the waterfall, congealed onto the neglected sidewalks and clinging to his soggy shoes as he trudged through the small little towns and cities that made up their makeshift home. 

There was really very little to do in such a small space. He'd read everything there was to read, done every drug there was to do, fucked every fuckable person available, and knew _every single monster _in existence on a first name basis. There was truly he hadn't seen anymore. Nothing left for him or anyone to do except wait for some unfortunate human to fall into the underground and kill them for their soul, so that one day they might be able to finally, _finally _escape. It was really quite interesting to witness the depth of depravity people would sink to when they were desperate. Hunting _kids? _ That was some real fucking dark shit right there. 

Sans would know. 

He'd killed two already. 

Because he was one of the few monsters in the underground with the guts to do it. They'd capture them, sure, but actually _killing _children was something that a surprising amount of people had trouble committing themselves to. Which he didn't understand, because they knew what would happen when they turned humans over to him. If they really cared about the surface so much they'd have the nerve to do it themselves and not hand off their problems to one of the few people in the underground who did not give a single shit about whether they made it out or not. 

Sure, Sans had wanted to see the sun when he was a kid. He'd been little and stupid and that was so, so long ago, when he'd been scared of the dark. Now he didn't mind the darkness. In fact, he _thrived _in it. He had the stomach to do things people didn't and that was valuable in a place like this. He didn't need _rolling fields of grass _and _sunny beaches _or anything else the humans had. Sans didn't like change and he didn't need anything or anyone to make him feel better. 

(_Sex, booze, and drugs hadn't. More living space certainly wouldn't.)_

He was fine in the darkness. 

Until _she _showed up.

* * *

_My only sunshine_

* * *

She was, undoubtedly, the most annoying person he'd ever had the misfortune of meeting.

From the moment she'd first stumbled out of the ruins in that slightly singed, too big sweater, he knew she was going to be trouble. Humans always were- always killing and threatening and crying and causing general issues- but there was something about _her _specifically that made a knot of dread curl in his stomach. And when she saw him she'd made this _face- _fucking _smiled _at him- that had made his throat close up and filled him with the overwhelming urge to throttle the life out of her pretty little yellow eyes.

So he killed her on sight and then five seconds later the world trembled _(what the fuck)_ and she was back, looking mildly surprised he'd had the audacity to impale her without so much as a _how do you do _beforehand. 

_"Nice to meet you too," she said. _

_He tried to kill her again. She dodged. The second time she wasn't so lucky, but it didn't matter, because she kept fucking coming back. Over and over. _

_"fuckin' - stop fuckin' doin' that," he panted after she reappeared the fifteenth time, perspiration beading on his ivory brow. His lungs burned, every haggard breath of the frigid air scalding his throat. Every fight she lasted just a little longer, memorizing his attacks and slapping on bandaids every time he nicked her. By now half of her body was covered in them and quite honestly, it was nice to see he was making some impact._

_"You're the one who keeps killing me!" she replied defensively, almost laughing- what the hell, what the_ hell-_ throwing up her arms in exasperation. _

He killed her one more time for good measure before he gave up and tied her up, dragging her through the snow behind him as he tried to think up more permanent methods of murder. Except she wouldn't shut up, prattling on and on and on and yes, maybe she was a little bit funny, but _god. _That fucking mouth. He'd have dumped her in a ditch to rot, but she was the first _new_ person he'd had a conversation with in more than two decades and it was, frankly, not the worst thing that had ever happened to him. 

She wasn't anything like the people he knew. She was friendly, not entirely polite but genuinely _kind, _which was fucking weird. Even stranger was her _persistence _and determination to become buds with every asshole she ran into. Which meant, of course, she died over and over and over again. And came back over and over and over again, trying every tactic except for, you know, _fighting back,_ until Sans grew tired of having the world reset every time she kicked the bucket and started, like, protecting her or something. But only because death wasn't going to stick with her and he was sick of having to relive the same exact encounters a million times over. 

_"you're really gonna jus' let them kill you, huh?" he asked blearily, hands shoved in his pockets as she _ _re-applied bandages to her knees and hands. Sh_ _e glanced up at him, blowing a stray hair out of her face, and shrugged. This was the first break they'd taken in hours and she looked like shit, which was partly his fault, but that wasn't relevant. _

_"Well, it'd be nice if they didn't."_

_"you ain't gonna fight back?"_

_"Nope."_

_He stared down at her for a long time, watching as she winced and prodded at the oozing gash across her palm._

_"you're a dumbass," he said finally. _

_"Yup."_

There were a lot of annoying things about her. Perhaps the most annoying was that nobody else seemed to realize how _insufferable _she was. She won everyone over eventually, despite Sans' best efforts. She was too charming, _disorienting_, catching people off guard and forcing her way in like some sort of mildly pretty parasite. Even his own brother had fallen for her act. He'd even offered to let her stay at their house. _Sans _house. _Papyrus, _the one person Sans thought he could trust.It was like some sort of bad dream. 

If she'd been anyone else maybe it could've been bearable. But she _wasn't _anybody else. She was just this bubbly, stupid piece of whatever that wouldn't stop following him around, like some stray puppy begging for scraps or whatever else it was stray dogs begged for. Attention, maybe. And everyone loved the dog, wanted to pet the dog and give it treats and kept asking if it was his and if they were allowed to touch it and, like, why would he even care- why would they _think _he'd care- because the dog wasn't his and he didn't even like the dog, and he'd taken the dog analogy way too fucking far, hadn't he? 

She was just _too much. _Too _good. _When everybody was a terrible person he didn't seem all that bad in comparison. Not that he minded being bad, because that was just something he'd needed to become to survive, but they were just _too different _and he didn't like change or things that were different. Different was dangerous. _She _was dangerous.

_"Look, I made a snowman," she said as he stepped out of the house and onto the doormat. Her snowman was horribly misshapen and missing a massive chunk of its torso and she looked so proud of it. Her nose and ears were blotchy from the cold and she was shivering, grinning ear to ear and something inside of his chest squeezed at the sight of her._

_Sans turned back around and slammed the door behind him._

She refused to leave him alone. She introduced herself to others as his best friend, which was stupid, because even if Sans _had _friends, he sure as hell wouldn't be friends with someone like her. Because he was probably two hundred years older than her, for one, which was weird, and she talked too much and didn't understand personal boundaries. And when she talked she favored the right side of her mouth, giving her a crooked expression that two years of braces had not fixed, and when she was thinking too hard she scrunched up her nose and squeezed her eyes real narrow. And she drank her coffee black but couldn't stomach booze because it was too bitter. And she had a little bit of an iron deficiency, so every time she stood up she'd stagger about until the blood came back to her head. And she used to want to be a ballerina when she was a little kid, but then she'd twisted her ankle and hadn't been able to dance for two months and by the time she'd gone back to dance class she didn't have her splits anymore and cried and cried and cried and decided to go to space camp instead, where she'd decided she'd wanted to be an astronaut until she heard about spaceships that had blown up and tasted freeze-dried food and decided that was not for her and he honestly wasn't sure why he knew any of this.

… fuck her, honestly.

* * *

_You keep me happy_

* * *

Sans didn't _dislike _his life, but he wasn't sure he was happy with it. Content, sure, but not happy. 

Happiness was overrated. So fleeting. So fickle. So hard to find and keep, and Sans had never been one to much much effort into anything. Chronic laziness, he called it, although it was probably more like nihilism or defeatism or one of those other -isms that people didn't like to talk about. He liked things that were easy. Like alcohol and cigarettes and casual sex and pills and getting so shitfaced he couldn't move his legs. 

But the problem was that it wasn't enough anymore because all he wanted was _her._

He didn't know how it had happened and he didn't _want _to know because it didn't change the fact that every time he thought about her he got all dizzy and warm and nauseous. And he thought about her a lot. Like, every waking moment and sometimes even when he was sleeping.

He couldn't get her out of his head. Couldn't stop thinking about her mouth and all the terrible, disgusting things he could do with it. Couldn't stop thinking about the dimple on the left side of her cheek that only appeared when she had her shark-grin on. Couldn't stop thinking about the time she'd fallen asleep on the couch and her shirt- _his shirt, _because she didn't have clothes and Sans was a fucking saint- had ridden up and exposed all that _skin, _soft and tanned and presumably warm to the touch. He couldn't stand the quiet anymore, accustomed to her rambles and high pitched, graceless laugh when he said something offensive she somehow found funny. He couldn't stand her _not being around._

When he was around he felt something he hadn't felt in a long, long time. And it wasn't a bad feeling, except that it was, because the last time he'd felt this way everything had gone to shit. He didn't _deserve _to feel the way she made him feel. So he'd started avoiding her. Not like before. Like, _actually_ avoiding her. Which had gone well until it hadn't, because now she was spending time with _other people- _people who weren't _him- _and he couldn't stand seeing her with other people. Laughing with them. Touching them. It made him shake, red creeping into his vision because _he'd _known her first. And that didn't give him a monopoly on her affection, of course, but the more people she met the less she cared about him and that shouldn't have bothered him but it did. 

Now when he saw her he was cold. Cruel, even, and he could see the hurt that flashed over her face every time he rejected her and it really was for the best. Because she was objectively a good person and Sans was nothing like her. Sans was a bad investment. He disappointed people constantly and she really did deserve better.

It was for the best, he told himself. 

* * *

_When skies are grey_

* * *

_She was waiting for him in his bedroom._

_"You're avoiding me," she stated bluntly, and Sans blinked, wondering momentarily if this was another one of those dreams of his. It was hard to tell, because he was really fucking wasted and why the fuck was she in his bedroom at two in the morning?_

_"is this real?" he asked her. He was swaying on his feet and hot, so hot._

_"You're avoiding me," she repeated._

_"no I'm not." Real convincing. _

_She took a step forward and the door was closed and they were alone and it was very dark out but he could still see her face. She was mad at him. "Yes, you have. Why?"_

_"i dunno." She smelled like flowers and detergent and skin and it was really hard to think and god she was so pretty._

_"That's a shitty answer."_

_"okay."_

_"That's a shittier one."_

_"sorry," he croaked hoarsely. __She was so close and Sans was shaking, breath coming out all wrong, too short, too hot, so _hot. 

_She did not reply and then his mouth was on hers and they were staggering towards the bed, sloppy and desperate as his leg slotted between her own, fingers fumbling with his belt as his teeth worked away at her neck and there was just skin and sweat and warmth and it was too much, too tight-_

And it was-

It was hard to hate himself when she was wrapped up in his arms, soft and warm and all marked up with his teeth and fingerprints and shit, the sight of bruises on her skin shouldn't have made him feel so good, but it did, because as previously established, he was a terrible fucking person with no self control, couldn't even keep his fucking hands to himself for once in life because he was a fucking abomination, a waste of life and all he ever did was hurt and mangle and destroy and he wished, suddenly, that he'd never been born. 

"_Sans."_

_"yeah."_

_"Are you okay?"  
  
_

_"...yeah."_

  
  


* * *

_You’ll never know, dear_

_How much I love you_

* * *

He doesn't love her.

She's _something _to him, he knows that. He cares about her more then he thought he was capable of caring. But he's 85% sure he doesn't love her, because Sans had never been taught how to love people and he's still selfish and mean and doesn't treat her the way you're supposed to treat the people you love. Whatever he feels for her isn't right. Isn't _pure. _Isn't good for either of them. 

He doesn't love her. Not the same way she loved him. When she loves people she _gives _and all Sans knows how to do is _take. _So it's understandable why they don't work out.

… yeah. They don't work out. 

He's not sure why anyone is surprised. He still hangs around her every moment of the day and he still fucks her, like, often, and he gets real fucking mad if anybody even _looks _at her, but no, they don't work out. Or they _won't _work out, anyways. He knows whatever they have isn't going to last, because good things don't last for Sans. He always manages to fuck up somehow. Even when he actively tries not to, and believe him, he's _tried. _

He's not sure what he said that last time that made her so mad. Maybe it wasn't anything he said. Maybe it was how he got out of her bed in the morning silently and stayed quiet when she went to go cry in the shower. Or how he drunk too much and kissed people who weren't her. How he was emotionally distant and too violent - always so violent- and never, ever soft. Maybe it was how he'd yelled at her for stupid fucking things like forgetting to lock the door or for talking to people who weren't him because he simply couldn't stand being happy.

He just wanted to get it over with. For her to realize that he's no good for her and ditch him before either of them get hurt more then they need to.

He doesn't know what finally breaks her, but one day he wakes up and she's gone.

She left a note (_It's never good when they leave notes)._

_I hope you can be happy somewhere._

He stares at it for a long time, then crumples it up, lays back down on the bed and stares at the ceiling.

_(the bed is so big.)_

* * *

A few days later the barrier opens.

Nobody knows exactly what happened, but her body is laying in a pile of flowers at the mouth of the mountain and all the human souls they've collected are gone, hers included. The wound, they say, is self-inflicted. And that's troubling but he's sure she can explain it to him when she comes back, because she always comes back. And then he can tell her all the things he forgot to tell her before she left and they can go outside and do whatever and she can tell him all about how hard it was to smuggle out the souls from the palace and make it all the way to the gate by herself and all he has to do it wait for her to come back.

So he waits. And waits. And waits and waits until Papyrus has to pry him off her cold body and drag him away, trying to explain that the body isn't her anymore, that she can't come back, and he doesn't believe him, of course, until he catches a glimpse of the sunrise, saturated and real and _beautiful_ on the horizon and he turns and throws up all over his shoes, choking on vomit and tears that burn, burn, burn, because oh god, she's gone.

She's gone.

* * *

_Please don’t take my sunshine away_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. That's the story. It's a shitty story, and there's no epilogue because there's nothing left to say.


	5. Dating UT! Sans headcanons

DATING UNDERTALE SANS HEADCANONS

  * He's an unsettlingly smooth flirt when he wants to be. He starts with silly pickup lines and maybe a few raunchy jokes, and then the next thing you know you're, like, head over heels and it genuinely is not fair.
  * He's one of the most laid back people you know. It takes a physically overwhelming amount of effort to actually make him upset or flustered, but boy, do you try. 
  * He’s lazy, but he’s decent enough to clean up after himself. As long as you do the laundry, of course.
  * He's clean, but sickeningly disorganized. He swears he's got a system, but you're doubtful. His room looks like it got hit by a goddamn tornado.
  * He’s a nerd. Once you get him started, you better be prepared for hour long, surprisingly enthusiastic lectures on Quantum physics or some other obscure scientific theory. 
  * He’s a surprisingly good cook, although don’t expect any fancy food from the guy. It's all grilled cheese and pancakes, but you aren't complaining.
  * His nicknames for you include_ Kid, Kiddo, Sweetheart, Baby, _and, less seriously, _babes._
  * Naps. He doesn't sleep all that much at night, so he'll take fiftern minute breakd throughout the day just to catch up on some sleep. Whenever he gets sleepy he'll hunt you down, pin you to whatever surface he can find, and sleep on you using your lap as a pillow. 
  * When you sleep together at night, he gets real up close and personal. Usually he'll just pull you into his chest and snuggle the ever loving shit out of you. Or he makes you snuggle him, somehow. You're still not totally sure how he does it. 
  * Puns. ALL. THE. TIME.
  * Puns when you wake up. Puns while you're brushing your teeth. Puns during dinner. Puns in the shower. Puns during movies. Puns during sex.
  * _"ever give a blowjob before, kiddo?"_
  * "I swear to god if this is another fucking pun i'm going to-"
  * _"'cause they're a real mouthful."_
  * "... Fuck you."
  * "isn't that what i'm doing right now?"
  * He likes how soft you are. You’re like a living, breathing pillow, squishy and warm and ever so snuggly. He loves to squish your skin and you best be prepared for some unexpected groping.
  * He finds your anatomy fascinating. There’s bones under there? How does that work? Why are humans still so fragile? Sometimes he’ll just start poking and prodding at your arms or face to see how your muscles react.
  * He'll let you wear his jacket if you get cold, even insist on it, because he likes everybody knowing you're his _pal. _If you know what he means by _pal._
  * You try to get him riled up often, but it doesn't work. He's cool as a cucumber and instead of getting flustered, he'll make an absolutely _obscene _joke and you'll start blushing and stammering and fuck, you were supposed to be making _him _all hot and bothered. 
  * It's okay though, because you getting flustered is really fucking hot to him.
  * He doesn't believe in much. It's annoying sometimes, trying to get him to care about things. Sometimes it makes you feel helpless he can't drop his funny guy act and just _take something seriously. _
  * A funny drunk. He’ll start giggling at nothing, and then squish your cheeks and tell you how cute you are. 
  * He’ll also lose his filter when he’s drunk. He’ll start talking about things you don't understand, like _resets _and repeats of events that have never happened. When he's sober he'll laugh it off, saying he says stupid things when he's drunk. You choose to believe him.
  * Sometimes you’ll catch him staring at you for no reason whatsoever.
  * When you confront him about it, he’ll just shrug and smile.
  * He’s secretly worried one day you’re going to realize you could do better and leave him. He knows it’s just a matter of time until you wake up, and realize just what a piece of shit he is, and he’s constantly doubting every move you make.
  * He has bad nightmares. You've woken up in the middle of the night many times to an empty bed, and go out to find him hunched over at the dining table, breathing hard. 
  * If you ask him what's wrong he'll tell you everything is fine and you should go back to sleep.
  * But if you just walk over to him and _hold _him, he'll melt into your arms, trembling and clutching silently at your shirt.
  * You promise him _everything will be okay._
  * He knows you’re lying, but that's okay. He’s never been one much for promises in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah uhh idk  
I actually have all the skeleboy dating headcanons done! So I'll be posting them, hopefully, as follows:
> 
> 10/16 UT paps  
10/18 UF Sans  
10/20 UF Paps  
10/22 US Sans  
10/24 US Paps  
10/26 SF Sans  
And finally, everyones favorite jackass;  
10/28 SF Paps
> 
> Thanks for reading! Catch u in a few.


	6. Dating UT! Papyrus headcanons

Dating Papyrus Headcanons!

  * Papyrus is very forward with his intentions. He’ll march right up to you with his dating handbook and tell you in that wonderful way of his ask you on a date. Of course, It’s actually more like he tells you you’re going on a date with him, because it’s not like anyone would ever turn the sweetheart down.
  * He's _such _a romantic. It's all roses and champagne and candles and chocolates and honestly, you couldn't be happier. You might've bitched about cliches before, but you'd always secretly longed to be pampered like he pampered you. Who cared if he was cheesy? It was nice to be wooed.
  * His dates get more casual after a while, though. Instead of dinners at 5 star restaurants and picnics in a garden it's now trips to the gym together, or snuggling up to watch a shitty mettaton flick, or even grocery store runs. 
  * His brother tags along sometimes. All three of you know he's third wheeling, but you get along with him so well you don't mind. Except Sans is crazy protective of his brother, so the most physical affection you can give Papyrus without having Sans breathing down your neck is a quick hug. 
  * Papyrus means well. Sometimes, though, his _help _makes more trouble for you then if he'd stayed out of it. 
  * He’s incredibly enthusiastic about everything and everyone. He’s the ultimate hype man, which is cute, and only slightly mortified when he decides to serenade you in public.
  * While he's _such _a sweetheart, he’s also a bit of a narcissist. Then again, he’s kind of allowed to be a narcissist. He's a good enough person it's warranted. 
  * He has exactly two volumes: megaphone and off. Which is fine, but you already get a lot of attention for being with a skeleton, so him always announcing his presence in public is a little much, sometimes.
  * He teaches you self defense, because _humans are weak and fleshy and don't you want to be strong like me? _He’s actually surprisingly good at fighting, although he always holds back against you, which is probably for the best, as he’s beaten Undyne in every sparring match.
  * He’s your personal cheer squad. It doesn’t matter what for, because he’ll always be right there encouraging you. 
  * He loves to cook. He’ll teach you how to make his signature spaghetti, and you in turn will teach him how to make it edible.
  * “NO, THE SMOKE IS FINE, IT'S CALLED _FLAMBE_."
  * "_Papyrus, I can't breathe and the smoke alarm has been going off for fifteen minutes."_
  * Slumber parties (under Sans’ supervision, of course). 
  * He’ll sometimes just swoop you up off your feet and carry you on his shoulders or piggy-back it. You don’t complain.
  * Forehead kisses.
  * Eskimo kisses.
  * Just a lot of kisses in general. He has to bend down to reach you. He always blushes orange afterwards, and it’s kind of the cutest thing ever.
  * … and for a guy without lips, he sure as hell knows how to make you swoon.
  * He’s the most well intentioned, good hearted person you’ll ever meet, if not a little overwhelming at times.
  * NYEH-HEH-HEH
  * He’s actually kind of snarky under all his smiles, and has made quite a few surprisingly sarcastic remarks that have not gone over your head.
  * Papyrus is a smart guy. Maybe he's a little socially clumsy, but he's excellent at strategy and problem solving.
  * He's the kind of person who people rally behind for, like, no reason. Maybe it's because he's loud or people think he's scary, but he usually falls into leadership roles wherever he is
  * He wakes up at five AM every morning and jogs, because he's one of _those _people. You have no idea why he does it, as he doesn't exactly need to get fit. He's literally only bones. You wake up at noon, about the same time as his brother, which is a little awkward at times when you emerge from Papyrus' bedroom at the same time Sans stumbles out of his own and you make eye contact and Sans cuts the tension with a pun and you both laugh it off but like, yeah, you'd just fucked his little brother, so that's different for him.
  * Papyrus likes playing board games. A lot.
  * He's crazy competitive. Any team sport he plays he'll dominate with terrifying intensity. Which is why he now has a lifelong ban from the laser tag place near your apartment.
  * He fusses over you constantly. It's not that he thinks you're incapable, it's that you're so small and squishy and breakable and he would lose his head if anything happened to you.
  * He cares a lot about his brother. He's missed a few dates with you because he got a call from Grillby that his brother was drunk again and needed to pick him up and take care of him. You understand. Mostly.
  * You're close with his brother, too. Sans likes you enough, but he's more distant with you then he was before you and his brother started dating. You're not sure why. You used to be good friends.
  * Papyrus worries that you and Sans' relationship has worsened and confronts his brother about it. Afterwards, you don't see so much of Sans, and every time his name is mentioned Papyrus goes tense and is evasive every time you try to bring it up.
  * ...Papyrus is often the glue that holds the lives of his family and friends together, but he can only do so much. He gets stressed easily and often times, you don't know how to comfort him, because he'll never admit he needs help. 
  * You do your best anyways. Great as Papyrus may be, he's bad at accepting that he can't always fix things. You have to force him to slow down and do things for himself sometimes. 
  * You help smooth over his relationship with his brother. They love each other and you're not going to get in the way.
  * And then Papyrus helps smooth over your relationship with his brother. And things get better.
  * 'Cause that's what Papyrus does. He makes things better. 
  * If he doesn't, who will?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh turns out i just fucking lied about posting those chapters on time. Things came up. Im a bad person.   
But here's a little thanksgiving treat for yall. Papyrus is certainly something we can all be thankful for. 
> 
> Anyways thanks for reading and I'll see y'all soon! Hmu with any requests you have! I read all of them :)   
Adios bitches


	7. love you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How would the skeleton bros react if, while they're snuggling with their S/O, their S/O says they're in love with them?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A request from my old tumblr, revamped.
> 
> This is real tooth rotting sweet and also angsty as fuck, because I can't help myself or let any of these poor people be happy.

**UT! Sans**

"Sans."

"mmmn," he hums into your neck, drowsy and warm. 

But he's not listening, not really, so you pull back, cradle his head in your hands delicately (_ his eyes are half lidded and he raises a sleepy brow at you quizzically) _and tell him, quite frankly that you love him.

And he doesn't actually answer you, doesn't say something stupid like _ who doesn't _ or _ that makes one of us. _Instead he just stares at you, a goofy, dumb grin slowly inching across his face. Then he's planting a fat kiss on your mouth that turns softer, sweeter, longing. His leg slots between your own and he hugs you close, tighter than is probably comfortable, and kisses you again.

It's a beautiful, genuine, raw moment, and he doesn't want to tell you he's heard this confession dozens of times before from you. 

He doesn't want to tell you you're inevitably going to forget he exists when the world RESETS again, and he knows it's going to reset, because it always resets. Because this is already the sixth or seventh time he's been through this particular course of events and you never remember any of it, because reality keeps getting erased and this moment only exists in his fragmented memory.

He doesn't want to tell you. There's no point, anyways.

Instead he lets the gooey, sugar sweet warmth of your love settle over him, focuses on the feeling of your skin against his cold, brittle bones, and prays to whatever divine being keeps stealing you away from him to let him be selfish for just a little longer.

"...love you too, kid."

* * *

**UT! Papyrus**

"I love you."

Papyrus nearly falls off the couch, and you, being tangled up on top of him, nearly plummet off the edge with him. He catches himself at the last moment and sits up so fast he almost knocks you out with his shoulder.

His face is bright orange. If it was dark out you could use his cheeks as a nightlight; he's glowing so brightly. 

"UH, YES, GOOD," he stammers, not meeting your gaze as he digs around in his pockets for something. His dating handbook.

"I, AH, THIS IS RATHER. UH, I'M VERY SURPRISED- PLEASANTLY SURPRISED, OF COURSE, BECAUSE, AH, I. YOU SEE-"

Jeez, he wasn't prepared for this at _ all. _He knows there must be a proper way to respond to an impromptu love confession, but he can't remember what chapter that kind of information would be in, and you're just looking at him like that, all expectant and kind of amused and smiling and oh, no, he was entirely butchering this whole event, which is supposed to be romantic and beautiful and-

"Papyrus," you say and grab his twisting, trembling hands, stilling them in your steady grip. You press a kiss to his palm, gazing up at him through thick lashes, and he _ melts. _

The tension leaves his big, bony shoulders as he lets out a heavy exhale, face still faintly flushed.

Then he wraps you up in his big long arms and crushed you into his chest.

"YOU'RE SO WONDERFUL," he sighs into your hair, and he feels, quite suddenly, like he could defeat any obstacle in his way. Solve any puzzle in the world. He feels like he's on _ fire. _Glowing.

Your voice is muffled by his arm. "...so you love me too?"

"OH, YES, OBVIOUSLY."

* * *

**UF!Sans**

Red's got one hand pulling you hips flush against his and the other in your hair, his legs tangled up in yours, and he's currently got his mouth slowly working away at your neck when he hears you whisper something at him.

"didn't catch that, sweetheart," he rumbles, kissing at your jaw a little softer then before. There's already a dozen bruised little patches of skin he's littered up and down your neck and he knows you're going to complain about them later. Which is why he left so many.

He's smirking at the thought of it when he hears you again, small and a little shaky but clear and filled with resolve.

"_ I love you." _

And the smile is wiped clean off his face.

He swallows thickly and there's this sinking feeling in his gut, a heavy, choking dread that fills his throat and makes him feel vaguely dizzy. 

What the fuck is he supposed to say to _ that? _

He knows what you want him to say. He knows people are supposed to say when the person they're screwing tells them they're in love with them.

But the thing is, you _ shouldn't _ love him. If you had even an ounce of sense in that pretty little head of yours you'd know that was a bad fucking idead, because Red was undeniably a bad person. A screw-up. He was a genuinely unkind, cruel and selfish and literally the only way this relationship was going to end was _ badly. '_Cause Sans was the kind of person who _took _things and you were the kind of person who didn't know when to stop giving. He'd suck the life out of you if you let him. He'd snap your legs in half if it meant keeping you with him. Keeping you _safe. _

You _ loving _ him was only going to make things harder for the both of you. A fling is one thing. But love was going to ruin you. He'd know, because he's absolutely head over fucking heels for you and it's broken him and that's why he can't have you saying shit like _ i love you. _

'S only gonna make it hurt that much more.

So he doesn't tell you he loves you back. He doesn't say anything at all. He just hides his face in your neck, screws his eyes shut, and tries to pretend he hadn't heard you.

* * *

**UF!Paps**

He's got you wrapped up in his long limbs, holding you tightly into his chest, and he's dozing off when you stir.

You sit up, removing yourself from his arms just enough so you can peer down at him with an oddly intense look on your face. Edge blinks blearily up at you, mouth twisting as he prepares to demand that you lay back down when you kiss his cheek with those soft, soft lips.

And then, as you draw back: _ "I love you." _

His glower falters as rapidly as it had appeared. 

Internally, he’s reeling. No, not reeling. He’s freaking the _ fuck _ out. 

He hadn't been prepared for this. Not even a little bit. And Edge is an organized guy. He doesn't like suprises and this is a massive fucking suprise. What were you _ playing at, _springing something this important on him while he's still in his pajamas, half asleep, and entirely unfit to be responding to any confessions of affection?

He'd glanced through his dating guidebook a few days ago and completely ignored the whole _ professing your love _ part because he thought it wouldn't apply to you. Because even if he does love you, which he's not saying he does, love is not something he's particularly familiar with. Nobody loves him. Maybe Sans, in his own way, but that was different. And yes, Edge is Great and Terrible, but no one actually cares about him like that. Do they respect him? Yes. Fear him? Yes. But _ love? _ Wholehearted, motive-less _ love? _

His gaze softens slightly.

“_ I know _,” he finally responses in a voice shocking softer then his usual bellows, pressing a quiet kiss to your cheek and pulling you back into his arms.

Later, when he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, you’ll hear him quietly whisper it back.

* * *

**US! Sans**

He's floating in that delirious, fuzzy little place that exists at the doorway to sleep, drowsily playing with your hair, when you suddenly flip over to face him. Your face is pink and you're biting at your lip, earnest gaze searching his face for something. He blinks up at you sleepily, his cheeks warming at the intensity of your stare.

"WHAT IS IT?" he asks, growing faintly nervous the longer you look at him.

"...nothing."

"OH. WELL-" 

"I love you."

And that shuts Blue up pretty fucking fast. His sockets go wide, his cyan eyelights expanding bigger and bigger until he, quite literally, has stars in his eyes. (_ How does he do that?) _

He lets out a strangled squeal and tackles you to the bed, rolling on top of you and peppering kisses all over your red, red face, all the while babbling about how great and how beautiful and wonderful and cute and perfect and amazing you are. 

"Oh-kay, oh, Blue, it's okay, oh my god," you sputter in between his kisses, smiling so hard it hurts.

"I LOVE YOU TOO, SO MUCH, OH MY GOSH, I LOVE YOU," he spills as you struggle to calm him down, and then he goes boneless- metaphorically speaking, obviously- and crushes himself down on top of you.

He eventually rolls himself off you, staring up at the ceiling breathlessly.

Then he pumps a fist triumphantly into the air and lets out a small _ mweh-heh-heh. _

You laugh and turn to face him. "You're adorab- holy shit, are you _ crying?" _

_ " _THEY'RE VICTORY TEARS."

* * *

**US! Papyrus**

You're wearing his hoodie (_ swimming in it, more accurately, 'cause it's way too big for you) _and sprawled out over his chest, picking absently at the lint on his white tee-shirt. He doesn't know how long you two have been laying on the couch, because he doesn't care enough to count the minutes. Probably upwards of an hour. He's got his head tipped back against the armrest and he's half asleep, running the pad of his thumb over your hip and letting his mind wander far away, when you suddenly prop your chin up on his chest to look him in the eyes.

He focuses his gaze on you, raising a single brow. Your cheeks are rusty red and for a moment, you say nothing.

He taps at your hip with his finger. You're soft enough he doesn't feel bone. "somethin' on your mind, kid?"

You swallow. He watches the tiny muscles bordering your dimples twitch uncertainty. Your fingers clutch at his shirt tightly.

"I guess I just love you," you mumble finally, setting your head back down into his chest to hide the creeping flush making its way up your face.

He feels like every ounce of oxygen has just been stolen from his blood. He feels cold, then warm, then cold again and then _ hot hot hot _ all over.

He blinks at you, looking mildly surprised.

"yeah?" he asks, voice betraying nothing.

"Yeah," you affirm into his chest, a little breathlessly. 

"hmmn."

Then, with a languid, self satisfied grin;

"took you long enough."

You lift your head to glare at him and he takes the opening to kiss you, lazy and warm and syrupy. When you part he looks happier than you think you've ever seen him and your skin is hot to the touch.

"love you too."

He kisses you again.

"as a brother, though, right?"

You shove him back, red to your ears. "We've _ fucked!" _

"i'm just joking, sweetheart."

* * *

**SF! SANS**

"I love you," you murmur very, very quietly into your own arm.

Blackberry pops his head up from where it'd been buried into the back of your neck and scowls down at you quizzically.

“WHAT?" He hadn't heard you properly, probably because he'd been preoccupied with trying to find a word to describe how your hair smelled. (_ Sweetish, vaguely floral, almost like candied orange? Or maybe like vanilla. He didn't fucking know and it pissed him off.) _

Face beet red, you shake your head and hide your blush into his pillow. But he won't let it drop. He sits up straight above you, making a face as you roll onto your stomach to avoid looking at him. Your refusal to respond has only made his curiosity _ (and impatience) _grow.

"DON'T SAY _ IT'S NOTHING, _I HEARD YOU. WHAT DID YOU SAY?" he repeats a little harder, and when you ignore him he flicks you in the side of your head. When that does nothing he lets out a huff of air and, with more strength then most people would expect a skeleton of his stature to possess he flips you over and throws a leg over your hip, sitting on you to keep you from turning over again. He pins your hands to the matress of either side of your head and leers down at you with a kind of smug authority that does werid things to your head.

"TELL ME OR I'M GOING TO MAKE YOU WISH YOU WERE NEVER BORN."

And he's obviously joking, because Blackberry has a severely twisted, fucked up sense of humor, but you relent anyways.

"_I_ _said_ _I love you," _you mutter under your breath, face redder then he's ever seen it (_and that's saying something, 'cause he's seen you in some, ah, compromising positions)_, and for once in his sorry life, he actually shuts up. 

His grip on your wrists goes lax and he looked mildly surprised, like you'd just tried to punch him in the fact. The silence only lasts for a few moments, however, because then he’s rolling his eyes and scoffing at you.

“WELL OF COURSE YOU DO. I’D LOVE ME TOO,” he says, and _ ouch, _that hurts, but then he leans down and presses a strangely chaste kiss to your lips. “OF COURSE, I LOVE YOU MORE.”

The way he says it is so nonchalant and matter-of-fact your head spins as he plops back next to you and gathers you up in his arms, snuggling his face into your shoulder blades.

_ Of course _ he loves his datemate. He loves them better than anybody else loves anybody, because Blackberry is the best at everything, including picking out perfect partners. And you're perfect. Did you not know that? Well, that’s hardly his fault. You never asked.

Luckily you can't see his face, because he's smiling into your back.

* * *

**SF!Pap**

Blackberry isn't home, so Russ and you decided to watch something dumb on the TV, some shitty rom-com from three decades ago and he's not paying any attention to it, because halfway through the movie he pulled you into his lap and now he's just feeling your chest rise and fall against his and doing his best not to let his hand wander up your thigh. Friends don't finger-fuck their friends, he's fairly sure. He's already toeing the fucking line with the whole _ snuggling you _thing. He doesn't think he'll be able to write off groping you as platonic.

Then you abruptly turn to bury your face into his shirt and say it.

"_ I love you." _

He hears you loud and clear, alright. Even if your words were muffled by his chest, there's no mistaking the delicate, feverish blush staining the tops of your cheeks. 

And it feels warm, too warm, like you're pouring boiling cane sugar down his throat. Your words hit his gut and quickly courses throughout his bones, salty and thick and pervasive and swelling and his heart _ sqeezes _ so tight it hurts and jesus christ you have absolutely _ no fucking clue what you've just done, do you? _

"mmn, yeah, love you too, kid," he hums, but not in the same way you'd said it to him. He's saying it the same way he tells Muffet he loves her when she brings him his favorite slice of pie. The same way he tells the shopkeeper in Snowdin he loves him when he gives him a discount on cigarettes. He's playing it off as a joke and he can tell you don't know if he's doing it on purpose or not or if he genuinely misunderstood you.

He gives you a pat on the head and hopes you're going to let it drop, but you, being you, do not.

"No, I mean that I'm-"

_ (Don't.) _

"-Um. _ In love _ with you."

You still do not look at him and _ why couldn't you have let it go? _

He stills, because now there's no way he can get away with ignoring your confession. Now he _ has _to say something and there's this certain, sticky, numbness sucking up the heat in his bones.

He stares up at the ceiling and closes his eyes, breathing in, out, in. Silent. You seem to be waiting for an answer, fingers aimlessly tracing his ribs under his shirt. 

"...sorry, kid."

And you know what he means.

For a few long moments neither of you move. Eventually you peel yourself off him, and he feels the loss of your warmth somewhere deep in his gut. You don't look at him.

The room is dark, aside from the flickering lights of the TV, and god, you're so pretty. 

You mumble something about needing to use the bathroom or whatever and he nods, not looking at you as you walk out of the room, leaving him alone with the end credits of the film and a growing, empty vat in his hollow stomach.

He lights up a cigarette, pops it into his mouth, leans back and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys.  
:(
> 
> Lmk which love confession is ur fav. I cant choose. Also im a bad person. Sorry again.


	8. breaking up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's over.

UT! Sans

He’s already hunched over himself at the bar, two and a half drinks in when you arrive, and you can’t help but wonder if he knows what’s coming. He’s always been perceptive that way.

You take the open seat to his left and don’t give him time to greet you.

“It’s over.”

He takes it well. 

“yup,” he responds, no particular emotion in his voice. He doesn’t ask why, tracing the lip of his glass absently, and you don’t feel _ bad, _necessarily, because this had to happen and you both knew it, but his reaction is making your stomach sink uncomfortably.

You hadn’t expected him to cry, because he was Sans and that was never going to happen, but you’d thought at least he’d just be a little more- Sad? Angry? Resigned? _ Anything. _

“I’m sorry,” you say, uncertain about what you’re apologizing for. Sans shrugs nonchalantly, leaning back and giving you a half-lidded, rueful smile that seems to say _ what can you do? _

“nah, we’re cool.” It’s the truth. He’ll be okay. You’ll be- _ something. _ “we’re both big kids, right?” 

You nod. You want to say that you and him can still be friends but you and him both understand that friendship isn’t something that can happen, because things have all gotten too complicated and it just _ hurts _too much. Right now, at least. 

“you want one for the road?” he asks, gesturing towards his own cup. Politely kicking you out. Or maybe he just knows you’re not planning on sticking around. You politely decline and stand up, catching a whiff of him- cheap deodorant and cheap drinks and detergent and good times- as you mumble out some pathetic sort of goodbye and turn to leave.

You make it as far as the door when you’re hit with this tingling, acute sense of deja vu, and you glance back at Sans despite yourself. He’s holding a new glass of something in his hand and he catches your gaze, raises it to you with a smile, and then goes back to the bar.

And he really _ is _fine, you know. He knows it too, even as his face crumples and his forehead falls against the bar and he curls his fists into the fabric of his shorts and drags a long, hot breath in between his teeth and tries not to focus on the great vat of emptiness filling the space behind his ribs.

He’ll be fine. 

* * *

  
  


UF! Sans

You’re standing in his doorway and he’s sitting at the edge of his bed, waiting for you. His room is always a mess but it looks like he’s tidied up a little, which is a stupid, pointless thing to notice. You have one hand on the doorframe and both of your feet are planted firmly on the ground and he stares at you for a long time before you say anything.

“I’m leaving you.”

He doesn’t take it well.

“no you fuckin’ ain’t.”

You have to explain it to him because he _ makes _ you explain it to him. You admittedly don’t do a very good job of it, but you hadn’t thought things would go this way and there’s not really a _ good _way to tell somebody that you don’t love them anymore.

There are accusations. He’s a very passionate person, volatile and bad-tempered at the best of times, and these are decidedly _not _the best of times.

He seems to take your withdrawal from the relationship as a personal offense. You suppose it is, on some level. He’s obviously hurt. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, even if he’s got a twenty-foot thick wall of armor around it. You’ve _ hurt _him and he wants to hurt you back, and maybe it would work except that you’re exceedingly familiar with hurting each other and you’ve acquired fairly thick skin. 

He throws things _ (not at you). _ He hurls insults (_very much __at you). _He asks if you're fucking somebody else. He asks if he doesn't fuck you good enough, hard enough, deep enough. He calls you names, lots of them- he has a truly impressive vocabulary when it comes to obscenities- and asks why you've let it go this far if you were going to cut him loose all along. His lip is quivering as he tells you you're a shitty person and you don't disagree necessarily, but it's childish and petty and it's not all your fault _(unless it is). _You let yourself call him immature and then shut your mouth and take the rest, because you know he’ll wear himself out soon.

And you’re right. After maybe half an hour the rage sputters out and with a final, choked out _ fuck _he stops, pressing both palms to his sockets and pressing so hard if he had eyeballs they would’ve popped. 

“fuckin’ go then,” he spits. He’s trembling, either from anger or something else, and you know he means it when he says he wants you gone.

“I’m sorry,” you force yourself to say, because a part of you is. It comes out weird, all strangled and hoarse, because sometime during the ordeal you’d started to cry. Because he’s still _ him _and he’s still the person you love (l_oved)._ You want, suddenly, to be so much _more _then what you are, but that's not something that can happen as so it's over. For now. Forever. Fuck. You aren’t sure about anything anymore except that everything has gone to shit and if you two continue this way neither of you will survive. 

But you _ are _sorry. 

  
  


He does not respond.

  
  


* * *

US! Papyrus

He knows before you say anything. 

“so this is it, huh?”

You wonder if your face had given it away. You were pretty good at hiding your emotions but he was good at reading you. Which was annoying, because you’d had a whole thing prepared, practiced it over and over on the way over, and he’d just thrown you completely off and now your voice wasn’t working properly.

So you nod, squeezing fistfuls of your sweater (_ his sweater, fuck, why had you worn his sweater?) _in your hands and trying to remember everything you’d decided to say. 

“can i ask why?”

Nothing specific. Lots of things that had brewed too long, gone too long without being addressed, too many things that hadn’t been said and you realize that your list is really shitty and unspecific and it’s going to seem like you think there’s something wrong with _ him _ and that’s really _ not _the case. It’s just that nothing about anything was right anymore and you didn’t feel the same way you used to. Because you weren’t the same person that you’d been at the beginning and neither was he.

Except you lack the words to express any of that so you just kind of shrug. 

“It’s just not working,” you say lamely. Your tongue is too heavy in your mouth, dry and fuck, this was not going well.

There’s a short silence.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt suddenly.

“it’s okay.” (_ it isn’t) _“you don’t have to be sorry.”

There is a longer silence. It’s impossible to tell how he’s feeling. You don’t think you’d want to know anyway.

“... sans is comin’ home soon,” he says. You take the cue and get up, face red and eyes redder. You refuse to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. 

“seriously. s’ fine. we’re still good.”

_ Friends. _You’d been friends before this and you could, conceivably, be friends afterward. You’d have to be, because you were still close with his brother and Blue and Stretch were a package deal. 

But it won't be the same.

You leave and take his sweater with you.

He waits until you’re out the door and down the block to return to the couch, where he takes four sleeping pills, buries his face into his big, clammy hands and tries to stop shaking.

  
  


* * *

SF! Papyrus 

“It’s over,” you say.

He’s sitting on the porch next to you and it’s two twenty-seven in the morning. You’re wearing a sweater and your knee touches him when he shifts, tilting his head up towards the sky.

“yeah?”

You nod.

He brings his smoldering cigarette to his teeth and takes a long, gratuitous drag before releasing the smoke through his nose. You watch the white-grey spirals drift upwards, swirl like a drop of ink in a glass of clear water before the patterns trail off into nothingness.

“...huh.”

There’s a long silence between you. He looks the same as the day you’d met him and you’re struck, suddenly, by this terrible sense of injustice at his lack of a reaction. You’d been gathering the courage to speak to him for days. Cried over it. Thought up dozens of different ways to break the news and all he has to say is _ huh. _

You can’t help yourself. “That’s it?”

He shrugs. “dunno what you want me to say. seems like you’ve made up your mind.”

You want to tell him you haven’t, but you don’t, because you _ have _ thought this through and even if you aren’t entirely certain of yourself it doesn’t _ change _ the fact that nothing is working and that you can’t love him like you’re supposed to anymore _ . _

So you say nothing and look away, biting hard at the inside of your cheek.

Your knee touches his again and that’s probably your cue to leave, but you don’t want to go. You know that when you do, you’re not coming back. But even though it’s obvious you’ve outstayed your welcome he doesn’t ask you to leave. What he does is lean back onto his elbows and extend his cigarette out towards you.

You stare for a long, long time before taking it and bringing it to your mouth.

It tastes acrid and you almost burn yourself but the smoke that pours out between your teeth is pretty.

You hand it back to him and he says nothing at first.

“maybe next time.”

You don’t know what he means and you almost ask him about it, but you have the feeling he’s no longer listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys.
> 
> If you're looking for more angst go check out my new dbh fic _Presque Vu_ or chapter 5 of _Red Riding Hood _. Thanks for reading this sad, shitty story and let me know how else I should hurt these poor characters.


	9. (NSFW) SF! Papyrus Headcanons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sorta continuation of the last chapter

SwapFell Papyrus Headcanons

A notorious skirt-chaser. He’s very, very much a Casanova, and a thoroughly destructive combination of Stretch’s smooth flirtations and Red’s sex drive. Once he has his sights on someone, it’s pretty damn hard to get away.

Within the first two minutes of meeting you he’d decided he’d do anything to get into your pants and proceeded from there, except that while speaking to you he realizes that you’re actually, like, somebody he wants to see more of so he steps off right away, because he wants you to stay in his life and not be just another name in his phone that he calls when he’s high.

He’s the most nihilistic piece of shit you’ve ever met, but he’s not embittered. Rather, his apathy manifests itself in his complacency and lack of drive as well as his easy attitude and inability to be bothered or flustered by things. 

He is, by very nature, distressingly lazy, except that his little brother refuses to let him slack off and so he spends most of his time at your house, where Sans can’t pester him. 

You’re very competitive when it comes to video games and he literally could not give a single shit about winning and that makes it all the more upsetting when he consistently beats you at every game you play without even trying. You ask him, enraged, how he keeps winning, and he shrugs, smirking, and says that he’s got a lot of practice. And there’s something about the way he says it that makes it sound like an inside joke but you don’t get it. 

You have to initiate all outings and text conversations. It’s just a thing. He’ll keep it up and tells you that he likes having the company, but he doesn’t often invite you over. He doesn’t want to get too involved and also being alone with you in a room is dangerous. 

He sometimes opens his phone and stares at your contact information for about half an hour, struggling to keep himself from calling before he finally turns off his phone completely and leaves the house to try and get you off his mind. 

It doesn’t work. It never does but, you know. It’s the effort that matters.

He’s a great cook. Like, actually. He doesn’t make fancy things but holy fuck were those brownies good (and not just because they were loaded with pot.)

He’s done every drug on the goddamn continent. You name it, he’s had it in his system at one point or another. He usually just drinks, although his preferred vice is cigarettes. He’s got a bit of an oral fixation and it’s not something he’s made any attempts to rectify, despite your constant pleas for him to stop because you don’t want to get lung cancer from breathing in secondhand smoke and you hang out with him enough that’s a very real probability. 

He’s got two ideas of a good night, (1), going clubbing and getting so shitfaced he can’t breathe properly, and (2), staying up late watching shitty movies until you inevitably fall asleep and he can kind of just look at you without having to make sure you don’t catch him staring and sometimes you even fall asleep on him and that’s just something else entirely, isn’t it?

He loves the rain. Especially thunderstorms. 

He’s also not a romantic person. He’s pretty cut-and-dry and unimaginative unless it comes down to sex. 

Pet names for you includes “kid”, “kiddo”, “darlin’”, and “girly”. He’s called you “sweetheart” a few times too, but only when he’s drunk and feeling all sappy.

His humor is entirely dry and more often than not morbid. Sometimes, if he’s feeling stupid or decides to be a shitty person, he’ll lean over and mumble a dirty joke into your ear and watch as your face goes bright red. It’s hilarious and it’s kind of fucked to do but he does it anyway because he really doesn’t fucking care.

Except that he obviously does fucking care which is why he’s so careful around you, making sure there’s nothing that can be confused as anything other then platonic between you two, ‘cause he has this nasty habit of fucking up relationships and he likes you enough where he doesn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t have you around. He’s got these frankly intolerable neuroses and he also has this issue with not being able to be happy with one person and he knows it’ll kill you when he inevitably fucks you over and he cares too much about you to see that happen. He’s also, again, selfish, painfully so, and he refuses to cut you loose entirely, preferring to lead you on just enough to keep you hooked but not enough where anyone would think that he’s into you.

He’s a jealous guy. Extremely so. He doesn’t say anything and no one would ever know it bothers him but every time he meets your friends or sees a guy hitting on you he’s hit with this overwhelming urge to crack their skulls on the pavement. But he doesn’t show it. Instead he’ll give them an easy smile and extend a hand and make an offhand joke that’s kind of passive-aggressive but sounds innocent enough.

You’ve only actually seen him mad maybe twice, neither times at you, and seeing him filled with such rage scared you so bad you avoided him for days. You never spoke about either incident, although you were almost positive that each occasion had ended with someone in the hospital or worse once you left. 

You are deep, deep, deep in the friend zone and it hurts so bad you actually have a hard time articulating the ache in your chest you feel when you see him flirting with someone- anyone- who isn’t you. He seems to have absolutely zero interest in you and never takes the bait when you try to come onto him and it’s actually so upsetting you’ve cried about in the shower on multiple occasions. 

But that’s nothing compared to how he feels about you. You’re on his mind twenty-four-motherfucking-goddamn-seven and he hates it so much he’s willing to give up smoking if it means you’ll stop cropping up in all his thoughts. He thinks about you even when you aren’t around- especially when you aren’t around- and for the stupidest reasons. He gets paranoid. He starts seeing you in other people who have similar hair or skin or bodies and he does a double-take, heart doing a double fucking handspring into his throat until he realizes that it’s not you and he’s not sure what’s worse: the relief or the disappointment. 

He thinks about you every time he gets a message on his phone and every time he drinks coffee and every time he lights up a cigarette and actually pretty much constantly.

Another issue he finds himself running into is the fact that he’s naturally got a pretty fucking impressive libido and he struggles with self control and he’s never wanted anything as badly as he wants you and so every time he sees you he has to physically stop himself from dragging you into a corner and growling out filthy things into your ear and fucking you till you’re ruined for it. Every time you bend over to pick something up or your shirt rides up your stomach or you show literally any skin at all he’s already half-hard and he thinks it’s genuinly unfair because here he is, trying to be a good person for once in his fucking life and everything in the fucking universe seems to have made it their personal mission to make that as hard (ha, hard) for him as possible

It’s not like he isn’t getting, uh, release. If anything, he’s hooking up with twice as many people as he used to. In fact, enough girls have stumbled out of his bedroom Sans has actually expressed concern for him. Not contempt like usual, but, like, he actually sits his brother down and asks if everything is alright, which means he must be in a pretty bad fucking way because Sans has never, ever, expressed concern for his brother in all the years they’ve had each other.

He’s not exactly sure what happened the night he finally caved in. What he does know is that he was drunk, extremely so, and you’d been wearing his shirt and he’d just snapped. 

Anyway.

It’s good. Oh god it’s so fucking good he thinks fucking you is the closest thing to a religious experience he’ll ever get. So good he immediately goes in for round two and three and maybe even four because he’s gotta make up for lost time before he feels like shit about the whole thing and whoops, too late.

There are a lot of reasons why you and him can’t be a thing. First off, he’s, like, much, much, much older than you. Probably a few hundred years older. Also, he’s not loyal and he’s draining, because he’s self-obsessed, selfish, and refuses to take anything seriously, including your feelings. He’s also just generally a fucking garbage person and he hates himself so much his self-loathing triumphs even his apathy.

But while you and him are never and probably won’t ever be official, he’s too hooked to go back. You and him are obviously involved in some intimate way beyond sex or even being friends. Very little changes in your daily routine, however, except for small things, like:

He never stops touching you. Not even in a sexual way. He’s got an arm thrown around your shoulders, a hand on your leg, a thigh touching yours, whatever. He likes the contact.

He likes it when you sit in his lap. Like, a lot.

He loves your hair and tangles his fingers in it at every opportunity presented.

He’s a fucking freakshow and he’s absolutely insatiable about where he decides to, uh, show his affection towards you. You and him will be having lunch or whatever and then he’ll just lean down and murmur something obscene into your neck, a hand already fumbling with the button of your shorts, and you truly lack the willpower to stop him. Anywhere and everywhere at any time, to the point where you wonder how you and him haven’t been arrested for public indecency. 

(because he pays off everyone before they call the cops)

His absolute favorite thing is teasing you in public and then leaving you high and dry. 

Or his second favorite thing. His favorite thing about fucking you is the all-consuming guilt and shame and hate he feels when he finishes and he’s got you in his arms, staring at the bruises he’s littered all over your perfect skin. 

While there are good aspects of your new relationship he’s so emotionally distant and detached you never feel more alone then you do when you’re with him. He doesn’t ever talk about how he feels and he shows no interest in anything you care about and you catch him flirting with other people often and neither of you are happy. In fact, you’re both miserable, and so he's not really surprised when you end things with him.

And he doesn't see you ever again. But that's okay, because he realizes that when the world RESETs- and he’s not naive enough to think that it won’t- he’ll get to do this all over again. And again. And again. 

And maybe one day he'll get it right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god SF paps is really the fucking worst and I'd die for him because I'm a sucker for unhealthy, shitty relationships. oh boy. This chapter is kinda also NSFW, though not outright, graphically smutty, because I'm too much of a puzzy to go all the way. Hopefully the angst made up for it.  
Okay thanks for reading! If you have a request sent it to my Tumblr and I'm also sure to answer. I love hearing from you guys. Seriously. in the meantime check out some of my other works! If you want. Or something. Idfk.
> 
> Mmkay stay safe, guys, 'cause somebody out there really cares about you.
> 
> xoxo


	10. (NSFW) why'd you only call me when you're high?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you smell like skin and defeat and soft, quiet agony
> 
> and sometimes, he thinks (he knows)
> 
> it's easier to give up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> substance abuse and slight non-con/dub-con fantasies ahead

It's just one of those days. 

And by  _ those days  _ he means that it's three in the morning, he's high out of his fucking mind, and he's already left thirteen voice messages and twenty-nine texts on your phone without an answer.

You're probably sleeping. Then again, he knows firsthand that you have shitty sleeping habits. But maybe things have changed. That had been so long ago. So that means you're either sleeping or ignoring him ( _ or fucking somebody else) _ and either way he doubts his thirtieth text message-  _ call me i miss you-  _ was going to change things, but you never know.

He stares at his phone, barely lucid, eyes half-lidded as he presses the little dial button next to your name. It rings only twice before going to your voicemail which means that you'd hung up on him. This probably suggests something about your feelings towards him at the moment but he's too drunk and too drugged-up to understand subtext and he doesn't want to think about you not wanting him. It's not a fun thing to think about and none of this is fun at all, actually, and he’s teetering on the verge of jumping into traffic except that he can’t because the street is empty.

He gazes ahead of him at nothing and shivers despite being  _ burning up.  _ He'd broken into a cold sweat and the light from the streetlamp falls down on him in waves, technicolor, and he has to consider the notion that he's hallucinating the entirety of what he's seeing. It wouldn't be the first time. He sits back, closing his eyes and trying not to vomit as the ground shifts below him and his gut churns, head pounding to the thrum of imaginary drums. Or bass guitar or something. He can almost hear it and he longs, so suddenly, to tuck you into his chest and bury his face into your hair. 

He wonders if you still use the same shampoo. He's never been able to quite place the scent. It's floral but also rich and deep and a little smokey and makes all the blood rush to his head and then down, down, down. 

( _ He didn't call you for sex but he's always up for it and he's never been able to say no to you.) _

He calls you once more, partly out of spite. If you were going to ignore him he might as well interrupt your peace as much as he could.

It rings once, 

Twice,

Three times,

Four-

You pick up.

“... what is it?” you ask finally, finally, and his stomach flips- does a double-fucking-handspring in his chest- at the sound of your voice.

“hey,” he replies, all hoarse and slurred and not at all like he’d practiced in his head. 

“What is it?” you repeat. You sound irritated and he can imagine the face you’re making ( _ brows knit just enough he can see the hairline wrinkles in between them as your nose scrunches up like a bunny or something similarly easy to catch and strangle). _

“you didn’t answer my messages,” he manages, sounding truly, deeply pathetic.

“Because it’s two in the morning and you’re obviously fucking wasted” you reply, and maybe you're a little more than irritated at him. He tilts his head upwards at the flickering yellow porchlight above him and sniffs, wiping at his mouth and nose with his sleeve.

“nuh-uh.” He swallows. “‘m not.”

“ _ Sans, _ ” you say, and he falls hard, snapping into two, crumbling, melting all at once like butter in a hot pan or wax held over a flame or like something else that melts or something. He’s too fucked up to think straight and he chokes a little bit at the sound of your name in his mouth. 

“sorry,” he croaks, splintered.

“Yeah?” 

“yeah,” he agrees, voice thick. He swallows again but the lump in his throat won’t go away. “jus’ gets so… fucked, sometimes. ‘n then it’s jus’, like.” He couldn’t put his thoughts into words, much less his  _ feelings.  _ “been thinkin’ ‘bout you all fuckin’ night, kid,” his whispers, and he thinks he hears you laugh, painfully, ruefully, and the sound is neither pretty nor kind because nothing about any of this is funny and you both know this. 

“... you’re  _ wasted,”  _ you say again, like it  _ hurts _ .

He rubs at his eye sockets as distorted, fuzzy shapes dance on the street in front of him. "so?”

“So call somebody who gives a fuck,” you grit, obviously very fucking pissed off at him for reasons he’s not sober enough to understand or  _ want  _ to understand. “Because it’s really not cool to ignore someone for weeks and then call at three in the morning because you’re horny and drunk and- I don’t know, high, probably.”

He’s aware that you’re saying something important but he doesn’t totally grasp what you’re saying because he’s too preoccupied with his own misery, because he’s selfish like that. His head was scrambled like somebody had reached in and unplugged all the important brain-bits and then dumped a bottle of formaldehyde in to preserve whatever was left. His brain felt spongy, soggy, slow. 

“...you’re always awake,” he mumbles instead of acknowledging the validity of your assertion, his gaze flickering in and out of focus. But he’d call you even if you weren’t awake so he doesn’t suppose his excuse means much.

“I’m not,” you say, but you’re lying and he can tell ‘cause even wasted he can tell when you’re lying to him. Just another of his many shitty, relationship-ruining skills. “I have work tomorrow. Early.”

“where are you right now?” he asks like he doesn't hear you, but he’s still having trouble getting his tongue to work so it comes out more like  _ w’reyour’now _

You seem to understand what he means regardless, but you don’t answer the question. “Where are  _ you?” _

“outside,” he says.

“Outside where?”

He does not respond right away and after a brief moment it seems to dawn on you. You suck in a shuddering breath and he imagines that you wipe a hand down your face, exasperated, maybe even a little enraged.

“... outside my house.”

“i think so.” He glances up at the door behind him and struggles to read the numbers beside it. He doesn’t know your address but he’s been here enough that he can rely on muscle memory to get him to your porch. He can see the pale blue glow of an echoflower on the windowsill- a stupid gift he’d given you six-ish months ago mostly as a joke ( _ he'd whispered a bunch of lewd comments to it then left it in your house, leaving you to go crazy as you tried to find the source of the voice asking to fuck your tits) _ \- and he notices that unlike the withered flowers in your window box that it’s blooming and has been recently watered. 

“This isn’t okay," you mumble, almost laughing, delirious, and he doesn't know if you're talking to him or to yourself. Maybe to no one at all.

“it’s really cold out," he says, although his insides are on fire. 

“You can’t keep _doing _this.” Except that obviously he can and he _is _and you both know there’s nothing you can do to change that.  
“i miss you so much, kiddo.” He swallows again, fingers curling and uncurling into the fabric of his sweater. His chest _hurts, _although whether that’s because he’s just put enough drugs into him to kill a small army or because he’s lovesick is anybody’s guess. “so fuckin’ much.” 

“Jesus Christ,” you say. “Jesus Christ.”

He opens his mouth to say something but he doesn’t know how to properly tell you that he’s spent every night for the last three months laying in bed and thinking about how he fucked up things with you and how he’s physically  _ aching  _ to wrap his arms around you and bury his face into your neck and hear your stupid, hiccuping laugh when he blows raspberries into your skin. Or how he still has the shirt you left at his house months ago and how he sleeps with his face buried into it even though it doesn't smell like you anymore. Or how when he tells a joke in public he looks to see if you're laughing even if you aren't there. 

Or how when he's got himself stuffed inside a girl he picked up from the bar he imagines he's fucking into you and the fact that it isn't makes him so supremely  _ enraged  _ he has half the mind to just find you and tie you up to his bedpost and make you cum until you're physically incapable of cumming anymore or your brain turns to mush. Whichever comes first. He wants to sink his teeth into your neck and leave bloody, black and blue marks in the smooth planes of your soft, warm skin. He wants to break down your fucking door and shove a collar over your head and carve his fucking initals into your back. Even if you don't want it. Especially if you don't want it and he's got to pin you down and shove your face into the bed to muffle the sounds of your crying while he slides himself, throbbing, against your slick warmth, up and down, until he gets impatient and  _ forces  _ himself inside because it's a tight fit- he knows it's a tight fit, so tight it hurts and your words slur, half-intelligible sobs of  _ no no no  _ and  _ sans  _ and  _ stop stop oh god  _ and when he's finished he'll wrap you up in his arms and kiss it all better, clean you up with his tongue and then fall asleep with your head on his chest, your trembling, tiny little hands curled into fists, still cuffed to the headboard, because he thinks he might just- maybe he loves you or somethings- loves you the only way he knows how to love people- and he wants to be close to you and hold you and keep you safe and he wants you to be  _ his  _ and exist only for  _ him  _ because he’s terrified of the concept of loving someone more then he is loved.

He feels nauseous. Maybe from the drugs. Or maybe because he's remembered that he's actively ruining your life with his existence and that he _wants_ _to_ _hurt_ _you_ so badly he doesn't need Saint Peter to tell him that he's going to the seventh circle of hell. And he thinks it’s funny because he’s never even- he’s never actually touched you in any way that counts. He’s fucked women before. He’s done obscene things to people. _Obscene, _vile, shocking things and yet nothing gets him as hot under the collar as the mere sight of your skin. Your thighs. Your anything. He’s not a fucking teenager but he’s jacked off to the thought of your legs more times then he’d like to admit, which is, quite frankly, really fucking pathetic and it makes him feel light-headed and short of breath and vaguely dizzy.

It's probably the drugs.

"i miss you," he says again, so quietly it's hard to tell if he'd spoken at all. He's feeling shockingly honest today, although he still possesses the sense to know you won't respond well to being told that he regularly fantasizes about defiling you against your will. 

"What do you  _ want  _ from me, Sans?"

It takes him a little bit to understand what you're asking and even when it clicks it doesn't, because he's not sure if you mean- if you mean what he wants  _ from  _ you or what he wants from  _ you  _ and even less sure about the answer to either of those questions.

You continue, voice unsteady.

"Because I'm not sure _you_ even know what you want and I get that you have issues or whatever but so does everybody and I just can't deal with your shit anymore because your shit becomes my shit and I'm not responsible for you because- because I'm not your girlfriend and I'm _barely _your friend so _what do you_ _want?_"

He does not respond because you're right. 

"... yeah," you spit bitterly. "I thought so."

There is a long, long silence, but you don't hang up. He's too shitfaced to wonder why.

What he  _ wants  _ is unimportant. It’s only about what he can get and what he can take.  _ What does he want?  _ It’s a big question. Too big for him to answer right now so he thinks small picture instead and what he wants immediately and what you can provide and he breathes, feeling his ribs expand and then crumple inwards. His hands are big and rough and he is not soft in any form of the word and it’s really very easy for him to leave bruises with his big, rough hands.

“... can you open the door?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. He’s not totally sure why he asks because even if you say no you and him are both well aware that he’s more than capable of breaking in, anyway. 

“Why would I do that?” You say instead of answering.

He shrugs, even though he knows you can’t see him. Unless you’re watching from the window. It’s too dark to tell if you are.

“i might kill myself if i’m alone.”

And that’s not  _ funny.  _ It’s not funny and it’s not a joke and it’s such a shit thing to say.

“Sans,” you whisper, and he imagines you inside, your forehead pressed against the wall in frustration, only a few locked doors away. He imagines pressing his mouth to your neck and wrapping his arms around your waist and hiding his face in your hair. He imagines nudging you forward until you’re flat against the wall and he slips his hands under your shirt and traces the wire of the bra cupping your breasts and he lets out a puff of breath and nuzzles the side of your throat and bites, gently, and you arch a little bit, whining, away from his hand, but he’s holding you firm. Your face is flushed, he thinks, but he can’t tell for sure because he’s got you faced away from him, and he rocks up, slow, into you, and you let out a small mewl. 

“yeah?” he croaks back in response, hiding his face in one hand as his mouth quivers. He feels numb but your voice is real and you’re real and you’re only a few feet away.

“You can’t keep doing this shit,” you say again, and it sounds a little bit like you might be crying, but he’s not sure. He’s never heard you cry before. He says nothing.

“I’m going to call your brother.”

He feels  _ numb  _ and he says nothing.

“Sans.”

Nothing.

“This is the last time, okay?” Whether you mean the last time you pick up his call or the last time you try and help him or the last time he shows up at your door wasted he doesn’t know because he doesn’t know a lot of things, he’s realizing.

He squeezes his face in his hand. There’s little give in the bones there. He squeezes harder but he still feels nothing. Nothing. Numb. 

“ _ Sans,”  _ you say again.

“okay,” he says, so quietly it’s barely audible.

There is a long, long silence. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears except that he can’t because he doesn’t have a heartbeat, so he’s not sure what the rhythmic, bloody pulse is in his head and he’s not sure that he wants to know so he focuses on the sound of your breath. You do not hang up which means you aren’t calling his brother which means- something. 

The door opens behind him. He turns, slow, like he’s moving through molasses or something similarly vicious and dark and suffocating, and you’re standing in the doorway, in a too-big shirt and short shorts and your legs look fucking  _ great  _ and your eyes are red and watery and your skin is sallow and you smell like defeat and skin and quiet, soft, anguish.

And he is numb.

He's gone before you wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so anyway i feel like shit
> 
> also i have a few drafts in progress. lmk down below which one i should finish first.  
1\. u drunk dial sans and get *frisky* with urself while on call  
2\. the skelebros r close friends with you and realize they're in love with u but ur dating their brother  
3\. sans has got u locked up 'for your own good' and ur giving him the silent treatment 
> 
> kk anyway thank you for reading and stay sober, kids.

**Author's Note:**

> Go yell at me at my tumblr  
https://puffers-mcmuffers.tumblr.com/


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